


Don't Tell Me You Love Me

by bethfrish



Series: Our Red Sea [2]
Category: Hardy Boys - Franklin W. Dixon, Nancy Drew - Carolyn Keene
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-30
Updated: 2010-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-04 17:52:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethfrish/pseuds/bethfrish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The happiest tragedy of their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Tell Me You Love Me

The first time they meet is a five-day murder trial that the city of New York collectively declares to be just for show, a means to an end that anyone who reads the papers could have called in a heartbeat. While the crime itself is hardly worth the page it takes to run, the reporters know better; it's the names that sell, and the papers agree that the guilty verdict was decided the moment Fenton Hardy and Carson Drew were introduced.

Fenton hadn't planned on staying in the city after he finished testifying, but Carson pulls him aside during the recess and gives him a wholly unsympathetic look. "I do hope you intend to see this through, Mr. Hardy. It is your case, after all." 

Fenton's fingers tighten around his briefcase. "I don't think the trial will last very long, do you?" he says after a moment. 

"Oh, five days. A week, perhaps, if the defense actually comes up with something worth hearing. So far they haven't." 

"Well, Mr. Drew," Fenton says dryly. "I certainly wouldn't want my absence to hinder your case." 

Carson regards him for a moment, then begins to laugh. "Do call me Carson. And if the jury's out for more than ten minutes," he says, touching Fenton's shoulder, "I owe you a drink." 

Carson Drew is arguably one of the more feared names in the state of New York, but Fenton's never actually seen him run a trial until now. The papers are right. The verdict was never up for debate. Fenton isn't needed there, they both know it, but he sticks around just the same, watching the proceedings from the gallery, meeting Carson for dinner at the end of the day. They split a bottle of wine. Trade stories and laugh at each other's long-forgotten failures. The alcohol makes his head swim, and he wonders how someone so ruthless in court could also be so effortlessly charming. 

The final recess lasts only as long as the jurors take to vote, and when the verdict is read, Carson rises from his chair and flicks his briefcase shut with a snap. The man doesn't even smile. It isn't until Fenton is in the lobby, talking to a potential client, that he feels the sudden warmth of Carson's hand against his back. "That was only nine minutes," Carson says under his breath, "but I'll buy you a drink anyway." 

That night Fenton goes down to the hotel bar and orders himself a gin martini. Straight up, no olives. It's his drink of choice when he's out of town, and one he usually enjoys alone, but it isn't long before Carson slips into the seat next to his, his own glass raised in the air. 

"Cheers," Carson says, his voice smooth. 

Fenton nods. "Cheers. And congratulations." 

Carson tips his drink forward and clinks it delicately against the rim of Fenton's glass. "I don't lose very often," he replies, but when Fenton glances at him, there's a tiny smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "Of course, I suspect the same is true of you." 

"To be perfectly honest," Fenton says, "it's not very often that I have the time to devote to court trials. That sounds conceited, I suppose," he laughs, raising his glass to his lips. 

"Not at all." 

"I'm just so busy with other clients. I don't know where they come from." 

Carson nods, raising a finger to signal the bartender. "I believe I owe you a drink," he recalls, pushing his own empty glass across the counter. "You certainly were invaluable to my trial, Fenton. And, if I may say so, much better company than the customary array of disgruntled New York City police." His pale eyes shine behind his glasses. "Two martinis. Extra dry, if you please. And none of that cheap stuff." 

They drink for a while in silence. Carson's martini is infinitely better than his first, but then, he expected nothing less from the man. "I don't know if you know this," Fenton begins, warm from the buzz of the liquor, "but I was on the police force for almost fifteen years." 

"Were you?" Carson asks with amusement. He turns in his seat, angling his body so that he can study Fenton more closely. 

Fenton laughs, fidgeting with the stem of his glass. "What is it?" 

"Oh, nothing," Carson says, peering at him over the top of his glasses. "I was just trying to picture the internationally-famous Fenton Hardy in a cadet's uniform." 

Fenton regards him seriously. "Carson, I rid myself of those embarrassing memories long ago. Though I'm told that a photograph or two may still exist somewhere on the wall of the 71st Precinct." 

Carson places a hand lightly on his arm and laughs. "What I wouldn't give to see that. Honestly though, Fenton," he says. "Your word is like gold in the courtroom. I wouldn't mind having you on my team more often." 

"Oh, really. I think you're mistaking your talent for mine." 

"Hmm, perhaps," Carson agrees. "But your word is, at the very least, fine-quality silver." He runs his finger along the edge of his glass, watching Fenton carefully. "Besides," he says, "I rather enjoy your company." 

"And I yours," Fenton replies. Carson's hand is still on his arm, rubbing small circles into the fabric with his thumb. Fenton swallows. "It seems we have a lot in common," he says slowly. 

Carson pushes his glass away absently. "Gin martinis, for instance," he observes with a smile. "But I was just thinking the same thing. Our jobs can be so tedious and, well—not solitary, exactly. But lonely. So when you actually meet someone who's as professional and intelligent as yourself," he continues, "it's only natural to want to see him again." He trails his fingers lightly down Fenton's sleeve. "You know, I have a very nice bottle of wine in my room. Why don't we see how it is?" 

Fenton stares at his own drink as his pulse hammers in his ears. He doesn't know which he finds more unnerving, the way Carson is watching him, or the troubling realization that he wants very much to accept. "Thank you, but I—" He glances at Carson before looking away. "My train arrives rather early tomorrow. And I promised my wife I'd phone her before she went to sleep." He can hear the lies beneath his own words, too fast, too sharp, grating his ears like jagged metal. "But thank you for the offer." 

Carson just smiles pleasantly. "Forgive me," he says. "It's been many years since I was married, my judgment is sometimes lacking. Perhaps another time." He slips several bills from his wallet, then gently touches Fenton's hand. "Thank you again for your assistance, Fenton. I hope you won't hesitate to contact me, should you ever change your mind." He stands before adding, "About working together, I mean." Then he turns and walks away, and all Fenton can think is how very warm his skin is. 

  
  
  
  


The lobby is deserted by the time Fenton sits down at the telephone, eerily quiet and far too well-lit. He almost hesitates to call, given the hour, but Frank picks up on the second ring, so full of energy that Fenton actually has to double check the time. 

"Hello, dad!" he says brightly. "Are you coming home soon?" 

"Tomorrow. I should arrive by mid-afternoon." 

"Mother didn't think you'd be back for at least a week! Does that mean you won? Oh, I knew you would! They say Mr. Drew is the best attorney in the entire state!" There's a brief pause, and Fenton can hear his other son chattering in the background. "Of course, I'm sure he couldn't have done it without your help," Frank adds. 

"Certainly not," Fenton says. "Is your mother there?" 

"Just a minute," says Frank. "I'll get her." 

Joe hops on the phone the instant his brother leaves. "Hello, dad! Are you enjoying the city?" 

"I'm afraid I haven't had much time to enjoy anything besides the courthouse and my hotel room." 

"That's too bad," Joe mutters. "Do you think we can all take a day trip one of these weekends? My teacher said we should go see the Van Gogh exhibit. It begins next month. What do you think, dad? Can we?" 

"All right, Joe. Sure. That sounds like a fine idea." Fenton can hear more noise in the background. 

"Oh, dad. Frank says to tell you that mother is already asleep. Should we wake her up?" 

Fenton shakes his head. "No. I just called to say that I'll be home tomorrow." He knows the boys will give her the message in the morning. "But if I may ask," he adds sternly, "why aren't the two of you in bed?" 

Joe goes quiet for a moment. "That's an interesting question," he admits. "It's a good thing you're such a skilled detective." 

"Goodnight, Joe," Fenton says. 

"Mother will be glad you're home early. Should I tell her anything else?" Frank asks. Apparently he's regained possession of the phone. 

Fenton runs his finger along the dial. "No, nothing. Just that my train gets in at twelve o'clock." 

"All right, dad. Goodnight." 

"Goodnight, Frank." 

Fenton returns to his hotel room and begins to undress. Shoes lined up neatly by the door, shirt on a hanger, pants draped perfectly over the back of a chair. He brushes his teeth and phones in a seven o'clock wake-up call to the front desk, then pulls back the bed sheets and turns off the light. 

When he began going out of town on private cases, Laura told him she couldn't possibly be expected to sleep while he was away. "Frank and Joe will have to protect me," she'd half-joked, while his young sons had only gazed up at him with equal parts abandonment and childish awe. "I'll be back soon enough," he'd insisted playfully, then kissed his wife on the cheek and thought about how much better he always slept on those starched, white hotel sheets. 

Now Fenton stares at the ceiling and prays for sleep that won't come. He shuts his eyes. Opens them again. He thinks about his train schedule. The trial. Whatever premium gin was used in that second martini. Carson Drew's ruthless ambition to win his case, and the way he smiled at Fenton the moment everyone else was gone. 

Fenton peers at his watch in the dark, angling his wrist so it catches the light from the window. He pushes himself up and leans forward with his head in his hands. Several minutes pass before he finally climbs out of bed. Slowly, silently. Like there's someone else in the room he doesn't dare wake up. He takes his trousers off the chair, his shirt from the hanger. 

It takes a good minute before he can find the courage to knock on the door. 

Carson looks shocked for a moment when he sees Fenton standing there, then steps aside to let him in. "Did you decide to have that glass of wine after all?" he asks carefully. 

Fenton eases the door shut behind him. "I hope the offer still stands," he says. 

Carson just smiles, and slides one hand slowly around Fenton's waist. 

  
  
  
  


"That was delicious, Laura." Fenton folds up his napkin and places it in the center of his plate. 

"Mother makes the best mashed potatoes in all of Bayport," Joe beams. "Not even Chet's mother can make them that good. And Chet's mother actually knows how to cook." 

Frank shoots Joe a look from across the table. 

"What?" Joe says. "Chet's mother teaches baking to children on Sundays. That's all I meant." 

"Joe," Fenton says patiently. "Why don't you show your mother your endless appreciation for her cooking by clearing the table?" 

Joe scrunches up his nose, eyeing his own plate with marginal disdain. "All right." 

"I'll help wash," Frank says as he pushes in his chair. He gives Joe the second in a series of annoyed looks before crossing into the kitchen. 

"Your sister visited while you were out of town, you know," Laura says, gently handing her plate to her son. "She said I wasn't serving enough vegetables with supper." 

"That doesn't surprise me." 

"I told her she would be hard-pressed to find something green that Joe doesn't find objectionable on some level, let alone two somethings." 

Fenton smirks. Both his children have failed to take his plate to the kitchen. "He'll grow out of it. I didn't like vegetables either when I was that age. Did Gertrude spend the night?" he asks. 

"Oh, yes. And she was very distressed to learn that her thirteen-year-old nephew was her greatest protection should someone break in while she was sleeping." 

Fenton rolls his eyes. "Oh, good grief. She's nearly as tall as I am. I've no doubt that she can take care of the average burglar by herself." 

His wife laughs delicately. "Are you meeting with a client tomorrow?" she asks. 

"No. Not until Wednesday. I have quite a bit of paperwork to do." 

"From your trial?" 

Fenton smiles distantly. "Yes. That case was rather more involved than my usual fare." 

"Oh, you never told me what Mr. Drew was like! You two were all the papers talked about," she says proudly, folding her hands in her lap. "Did you get on well?" 

"Mr. Drew, yes. He's a good man," Fenton says, looking down at his napkin. "Incredibly talented at what he does, and quite intelligent. We had dinner a few times." Then he laughs. "I'm afraid his reputation for seeming ruthless at times is not undeserved, but he seemed to appreciate my input." 

Laura beams. "How exciting! It certainly can't hurt to have a good acquaintance who's a lawyer." 

"Indeed," Fenton says, still staring at his napkin. The telephone in the hall begins to ring. 

"Oh, dad!" Joe calls after a minute, poking his head into the dining room. "Mr. Drew is on the phone for you! He knew who I was and everything!" 

Fenton smiles thinly. "Yes, well. I might have mentioned you in passing. I think I asked him what to do about children who refuse to eat their vegetables." 

Joe looks horrified. "Dad, no! How embarrassing!" 

"I'll take the call in my study," Fenton says, pushing in his chair. "Please replace the receiver in the hall when I've picked up." 

He shuts the door and sits down at his desk, taking a deep breath before he reaches for the phone. "You may hang up, Joe." He waits for the click on the other end before continuing. "Carson, you can't call my house like this. This is—my entire family just finished eating." 

"Hello to you, too," Carson says calmly. "Did it occur to you that I might have some business to discuss?" 

Fenton lets his breath out slowly, feeling both irritated and foolish. "Is that so?" he asks. 

"Actually, I have a meeting with a client in the city tomorrow, but I was hoping you'd be available to join me for dinner afterwards." 

"In the city." 

"Yes. But if you have a prior engagement—" 

"You're asking me to drive all the way to the city to meet you for dinner." 

"Yes, I am." 

Fenton glares at the stack of papers on his desk. He can picture Carson's face, all easy confidence and inviting smile. He tries not to think about it. "And what time would this be?" 

"You'll dine with me, then?" 

Fenton grimaces at the phrase. "I will meet you for dinner, yes." 

Carson chuckles. "And here I thought you had clients lined up outside your door." 

"Well, I had planned on catching up with my paperwork." 

"I enjoyed last week," Carson says suddenly. 

"Carson, for heaven's sake." 

"You certainly have a talent for getting worked up over nothing," Carson says. "All I said was that I enjoyed last week. Did you not enjoy it?" 

"I..." Fenton shuts his eyes. "I can't have you talking to my children like that. Do you understand? And certainly not to my wife." 

"I had only—" Carson stops. "No, I apologize." 

Fenton sighs, glancing at the door to his study. It's shut tight. "Of course I enjoyed last week," he says quickly. He wants so badly to say more, like how it's all he's thought about for the last four days, or how it's taken more willpower than he thought he had not to phone Carson himself, but all he says is, "You know I did." 

"Fenton," Carson says, more quietly than usual. "I have a daughter of my own. I certainly didn't mean to intrude. There are rules for...for people like us. I wasn't thinking." 

"Never mind," Fenton says. "It's...only a business call, after all." 

"What else would it be?" 

"Though I should warn you," Fenton adds carefully. "I usually don't take business calls after seven o'clock, and it's a bit unnatural for me to make exceptions." 

"Duly noted," Carson says. "Meet me at five o'clock, then. 48th and Lexington." 

"All right." 

The line goes quiet, and Fenton suddenly realizes that he's waiting for Carson to say more. Wants him to say more. But Carson only laughs softly and murmurs, "Goodnight, Fenton," and the line goes dead before Fenton can even reply. 

"I have to go into the city tomorrow," he tells his wife when he returns to the dining room. There's a lopsided plate of cookies sitting at the center of the table. Clearly his sons have already been there. 

"Goodness, there's no rest for the weary, is there?" Laura says. "Shall I take you to the station in the morning?" 

"No, it's only a dinner meeting. I think I'll drive." 

She smiles up at him and pushes the plate in his direction. "I baked them this afternoon." 

Fenton reaches out and takes a cookie. "I bet there's even the same number of chips in each one," he says, returning her smile. It tastes as good as it looks, so perfectly sweet it makes his teeth ache. 

  
  
  
  


The drive to the city takes two hours in the best of traffic, but Fenton finds that for once he doesn't mind. Train rides are too quiet, too passive. Too much time left to choke on that stale compartment air and his own suffocating thoughts. The two hours he spends studying the road is almost enough to distract him from why he's there in the first place. He gazes at the cascade of taillights and watches for the exit out of the corner of his eye, wondering absently where all these people could possibly be going. 

Carson is already waiting in front of the Hotel Lexington when he arrives, leaning against the stone and reading the paper like he's waiting for a bus. 

"There you are," he says cheerfully when Fenton joins him. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd changed your mind. How are you?" 

"I had to park," Fenton says, glancing behind him as he follows Carson inside. 

"Please don't talk to me about driving. The pedestrians here seem to think they own the street. Then I spent an hour in the car this morning just to meet with some moronic family who wanted to sue for property that wasn't even theirs. The mother was particularly dreadful, as she had an irritating habit of only speaking to me through her husband. 'Yes, darling! Tell him about the trees we planted!' I should charge them double for wasting my time." Carson chuckles. "I'm sorry. I'm boring you. You should try the lamb chops here. They're sensational." 

"Nonsense," Fenton says. "I mean about boring me. I'm sure the lamb chops are excellent." 

The maître d' shows them to a small table in the corner, so secluded from the other guests that Fenton has to wonder if Carson didn't request it in advance. Carson orders a bottle of red wine that's simply exquisite, and when he raises his glass and murmurs, "Cheers," the look in his eyes is enough to make Fenton's pulse race. 

They've only just ordered when a large hand lands unexpectedly on Carson's shoulder. "I hope I'm not intruding," the man says loudly, though Fenton can't imagine what else to call it. 

Carson turns around. "Goodness, how are you, Sam?" he says. "Sam, this is my friend and colleague, Fenton Hardy. Fenton, Senator Samuel Wagner." 

Fenton forces a smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you," he says, shaking his hand. 

"Fenton Hardy, of course! I recognize the name. You've been in the papers quite a bit lately." 

"Only when it's a slow news day," Carson jokes, winking in Fenton's direction. "We were just about to discuss the latest wave of counterfeiting that's been hitting some of the smaller towns. They say the leader of the ring goes by Mark Shamley. Have you heard of him?" 

Wagner strokes his chin with a decidedly blank look. "No. No, I don't believe I have." 

"Phony Lincolns popping up everywhere. That's the rumor, anyway. Won't you join us? We've only just put in our order." 

"Thank you, Carson," he says, drumming his fingers shamelessly against his stomach, "but you've caught me on my way out. Another time." He turns towards Fenton. "Very nice to meet you, Mr. Hardy." 

"Likewise," Fenton says as pleasantly as possible. 

"Good luck with that Shamley fellow." 

"Thank you, Sam," Carson says, clasping his hand warmly. "Do say hello to Virginia for me." 

"I certainly will. Try the lamb," he whispers conspiratorially to Fenton. "It's magnificent." 

Fenton smirks. "So I've heard." 

Carson leans across the table and pours himself another glass. "How in the world that oaf got himself elected is beyond me," he says derisively. "I apologize for inviting him to join us, though the face you made was well worth it. You should have seen it." 

Fenton purses his lips. 

"I knew he'd already eaten," Carson assures him. "There was sauce on his shirt." He regards Fenton from across the table, tilting his head. "You look thoroughly unnerved. What's wrong?" 

"Is this a business meeting or not?" Fenton says testily. 

"What do you want it to be?" 

Fenton says nothing, just stares at his wine glass and thinks that maybe this was a mistake. This is already getting too risky, too complicated. 

"Mark Shamley is the name of my milkman, so no, this isn't a business meeting," Carson clarifies. "I'm only a little sorry to say that I've developed quite a gift for pulling lies out of thin air. Don't let it disconcert you. It gets easier." Then he leans forward and slowly brushes his foot against Fenton's ankle. "I don't know what sort of cologne you're wearing, but you smell incredible. Ever since you got here, all I've wanted to do is get you undressed and figure out what on earth that maddening scent is." 

Fenton's face flushes with embarrassment and anger and, irritatingly, lust. He tries not to look rattled. "Pine needles," he says flatly, but it's hard to keep a straight face when Carson bursts out laughing. 

They enjoy the rest of their dinner without interruption, and when the bill has been paid, Carson carefully adjusts his glasses and asks, "What shall we do now?" 

Fenton toys with the stem of his empty glass, his heart racing. "Did you have something in mind?" He doesn't mean to sound coy, but Carson clearly has more talent for this than he does. Fenton had asked his wife-to-be for a dance at a friend's wedding because he thought she was pretty. They were married a year later and that was that. But there's no party here, no dancing. Just Carson watching him from across the table with a look in his eyes that says, _What is it you want?_

"We could have a few drinks at the bar," Carson offers. "Or I believe there's a Van Gogh exhibit in town, though if we happen run into another senator, I'm not sure what we'll tell him." 

"No," Fenton says quickly. No. Not the Van Gogh. Seeing it with Carson would be an almost greater betrayal to his family than the one he's already committing. "No, you're right." He forces a laugh. "True, I've investigated art smuggling rings before, but let's not push our luck." 

Carson leans forward. "I've already told you what I want, Fenton," he says quietly. "If it's not the same thing you want, or if you're not sure, we can call it a night." 

Fenton closes his eyes for a second, and all he can think about is Carson's foot brushing up against his ankle, Carson undressing him and touching every part of his body until his skin is stained with Fenton's cologne. He pulls out his wallet to leave the tip. "I'm just going to make a phone call," Fenton says deliberately. "I'll be in the lobby. If you happen to book a room while I'm there, I might be persuaded to stay." 

Fenton's wife picks up just as Carson passes by and presses a slip of paper into Fenton's hand. _204_. "Hello, darling, it's me," Fenton says. "Carson and I have quite a few things left to discuss, and if it gets to be too late I'll probably just find a hotel and return in the morning." 

"You're away so much, Fenton," Laura says with concern, "but I suppose that's wise. Driving when you're tired can be dangerous, and I certainly wouldn't want anything to happen to you." The affection in her voice makes his chest hurt. "Say hello to Carson for me, won't you?" 

"I will," Fenton lies. 

"I love you, darling. See you tomorrow." 

Fenton squeezes his eyes shut. "Yes, see you tomorrow. I love you, too." 

He takes the elevator to the second floor and walks down the hall until he reaches 204. Carson opens the door on the first knock. 

"That didn't take long," he whispers playfully, sliding his hands around Fenton's waist. He kisses his neck, his jaw. Works his fingers over the buttons of Fenton's shirt. "Does this mean you've decided to stay?" 

Fenton grabs him by the shoulders and presses him up against the door. Carson always has to question the obvious. Always has to make Fenton state what he already knows. "Isn't that what you want?" Fenton asks, kissing him roughly on the mouth. 

Carson moans as Fenton slides his hand between their bodies. "Of course," he breathes. 

Fenton wakes up much too soon with a sore back and bruises on his knees and Carson's face buried in the crook of his neck. Turning his head, he blinks wearily at where the curtains are drawn tight, where the sunlight is already beginning to shine its warning through the gaps in the fabric. 

  
  
  
  


The Hardys attend church every Sunday, seven o'clock Mass at the First Church of Bayport. ("The only church of Bayport," Joe likes to remind them.) Truth be told, Fenton's never gotten much gratification from sermons or rituals, but Laura came from a staunchly Catholic family, and anyway, it's good for business to be seen at Sunday Mass with his two well-dressed boys and a wife who's still pretty enough to make his colleagues jealous. 

Fenton stares at his hymnal and mouths along with the words. Stand, sit, stand. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Joe fiddling with a small wooden puzzle. "Give that to me," he whispers harshly, holding out his hand. 

Joe looks down at his lap and relinquishes the toy. "Don't make me see Father Westwood," he mumbles. 

Fenton just slips it into his pocket and slides his hymnal over onto Joe's lap. He can't even remember the last time he took Confession. The thought of it makes his blood run cold. 

After church they go to Mae's Restaurant, their regular Sunday breakfast spot where they never fail to order the same thing. Fenton gets an omlette, Laura has the buttermilk short stack, and Frank and Joe alternate between waffles and blueberry pancakes because they can never decide which is better. Today Joe goes for the waffle. 

"Boys, I thought that after we go home and change we might do some shopping for your father's you-know-what," Laura says, pouring a modest amount of maple syrup over her pancakes. 

"Not fair," Joe pouts. "Dad's birthday is next week, and then Frank's is two weeks later. I have to save twice the allowance." 

"So do I," Laura teases. 

"It's all the same in the end, Joe," Frank scoffs. "Maybe if you didn't spend all your money on those silly baseball cards, you'd have more of it left." 

"They're not silly," Joe says defensively. 

Frank punctures a blueberry with his fork and pops it into his mouth. "Gosh, you stare at them so much, that Lou Gehrig fellow is going to disintegrate completely." 

Joe's cheeks redden. "Shut up." 

"Stop it," Fenton snaps. "Both of you. If Joe wants to play with baseball cards, then let him. You fight over the silliest things." 

"Sorry," Frank mumbles, but Joe just stares moodily at his waffle. 

Laura takes a sip from her orange juice and forces a smile. "Well, where shall we go shopping?" 

His wife takes the kids to Downtown Bayport, so Fenton finds himself with an empty house for the better part of the afternoon. He knows he should try and get some work done—there are invoices that need to be written, reports that need finishing—but he's restless and agitated, and the blank pages just stare back at him unhelpfully. 

He takes off his suit and hangs it back up in the closet, puts on a pair of old trousers and his dressing gown and pours himself a glass of brandy. There's a worn leather chair in his study that's been his favorite place to read for as long as they've owned the house, but when he realizes he's been staring at the same paragraph for the last five minutes, he closes the book and tosses it onto the table. 

He doesn't know what makes him pick up the phone, but before he knows it Carson's voice is on the other end and he's trying to come up with a reason for why he called. 

"You seem perturbed," Carson says. "Is something wrong?" 

"No," Fenton lies. "Not precisely. Everyone's out. I don't quite know what to do with myself." 

"I have to say, I'm rather surprised you called, given our earlier discussion." 

Fenton cringes. He's broken his own rule that easily. "I know. I—I'm sorry." He feels foolish. 

"Luckily for me," Carson says calmly, "Nancy is out to lunch with her aunt." 

Fenton suddenly realizes that Carson never mentions his daughter. He never phones home, never has to make arrangements to see that she's looked after. Either he's impossibly careless about keeping her away from his private life, or just the opposite. 

"How do you do it, Carson?" he asks suddenly. 

"Do what?" 

"Keep...pretending." 

"Fenton, darling, I put on an act for a living," Carson says, and Fenton doesn't know if he's more put off by the term of endearment, or by how much more experienced Carson is at feigning composure. "Men like us have three choices," he continues. "We can live the life that's expected of us, we can be true to who we are and accept the consequences, or we can try and do both. None of them are easy." 

Fenton had married his first and only girlfriend, held her hand and kissed her because that's what husbands were supposed do. It never occurred to him that there might have been another choice, that he was supposed to feel more than he did when he went to bed with his wife. None of those things ever crossed his mind; he never let them. 

"I'm lucky enough to have a daughter who means the world to me," Carson says. "But it's a comfort as well as a hindrance. I can't jeopardize the life she has." 

"Of course. I know," Fenton says. 

"I've no doubt that you do." Carson pauses. "And there's you." 

Fenton smirks to himself. "What about me?" He means for it to sound self-deprecating, a humorless jab at his own expense, but when Carson speaks again, his voice is strangely quiet. 

"Fenton," he says. "Surely you don't need to ask." 

Fenton swallows. "We should probably end this call." 

"Ah, I've crossed the line again," Carson says with a small, ironic laugh. 

"...No," Fenton says. "You haven't." 

"You know," Carson says wistfully, "some men in our position think that anything but the first choice isn't worth the risk, but I disagree. I believe that if you can draw even a thread of happiness from within that great tangle of lies—well, that alone is worth everything. But forgive me for turning philosophical on you," he says more cheerfully. "That's merely what I think. Enjoy your Sunday." 

"And you," Fenton tells him, and he stares at the phone for a long time, even after they've hung up. 

Laura and the boys get home an hour later, loaded with groceries and shopping bags that Joe tries to obscure behind his back. They have tuna for dinner and play a game of cribbage, Fenton and Joe against Laura and Frank. He reads a few chapters in his favorite chair, then joins his wife in bed, slowly undressing her beneath the covers. She kisses his neck and gasps his name, and he pushes into her and forces himself to do the same. 

  
  
  
  


Fenton can see the birthday party coming from a mile away. It's in the way his wife keeps stashing things in the very back of the icebox. The way Frank grins whenever Fenton asks where they've hidden all those shopping bags. The way Joe keeps polishing his shoes, over and over and over again, until his fingertips are stained black. 

Frank bursts into his study that afternoon, going on about the Woolworth's located thirty minutes outside of town. "Please, dad," he begs. "I need a new tennis racket for school, and they're the only ones who have the right one." 

Fenton lowers his paper. "Is that so? I didn't know you were still playing tennis in November." 

"Um, well..." Frank scratches his head. "We do. When the weather's nice." 

"Oh, I see." Fenton winks at Joe, who's slyly joined his brother in the doorway. "I must say, though," Fenton adds, giving them a thorough once-over, "you're rather well-dressed for Woolworth's." 

Knowing what he does, he assumes they need to be gone for at least an hour and a half. Surely there's food that needs to be put out, decorations that need hanging, friends and colleagues who need to be organized and introduced and turned into some semblance of a party. Fortunately, Frank's wandering shamelessly around the store like he can't remember where anything is, and Joe keeps asking a dozen questions a minute, about everything from stuffed bears to chewing gum to ladies' hats. 

Nearly fifty minutes later, Frank picks up a tennis racket and nods like he's just chosen the winner of Bayport's annual dog show. "This is it, I think." 

"You think so?" Fenton asks, raising an eyebrow. It's his birthday and here he is, buying his son a tennis racket. 

"Yes. Yes, this is the one." Frank grins sheepishly. "Will you get it for me?" 

"I thought you said you needed it for school." 

"Well, yes," Frank says. "But it's still polite to ask." 

"Dad?" Joe asks. 

"What is it?" 

"Can I get this airplane?" 

Fenton glances down at the box in his son's hands. 

"You put it together yourself," Joe explains. "The parts interlock." 

Fenton hides his smile as he reaches for his wallet. "Why not?" 

He's already guessed the reason behind their impromptu shopping trip, so he's not surprised when he comes home to find colored crepe paper suspended from the ceiling, and thirty of his friends huddled in his parlor. 

"My goodness, Laura," he jokes loudly, putting his arm around her waist. "Who are all these people?" 

Everyone laughs. His old partner from his police days, some friends from back in college. The Mortons, their neighbors. They all shake his hand and give him their best, and he smiles and laughs and kisses his wife on the cheek for getting them all together like this. 

And then a single voice shatters it all. 

"So how does it feel to be forty?" 

Fenton doesn't have to turn around to know who's standing there. How could he have missed him when he first walked into the room? That distracting smile—how could he not have noticed? 

"Splendid," Fenton answers stiffly. 

"Oh, sweetheart," Laura beams, "I know what good friends the two of you have become, so I invited the Drews." She flutters her hand in Carson's direction before excusing herself to see to the refreshments. 

The Drews. Plural. Fenton's gaze drops to the young girl at Carson's side. She's pretty and petite, with blond hair and a sophisticated emerald dress. She can't be any older than Frank. 

"Nancy, this is Mr. Hardy," Carson says. 

For some reason Fenton expects her to be shy, but she rocks back on her heels and smiles so hard her cheeks dimple. "Thank you for inviting me." 

Fenton tries not to grimace. "You're very welcome," he says kindly. "That's a lovely dress you're wearing." 

"Thank you," she says. She doesn't look at all like Carson. "Dad bought it especially for tonight." Except for the eyes. When she looks at Fenton, it unnerves him almost as much as that first night at the hotel bar. 

"Did he?" Fenton asks, glancing at Carson sharply. "Well, it's lovely. But I'm sorry, you'll have to excuse me," he says politely, placing his hand briefly against Carson's back. "I must see if my wife needs help in the kitchen." 

He successfully avoids both Carson and his daughter for the better part of the evening, but it's not difficult when most of the guests have already heard the name Carson Drew in some capacity, and the rest are easily drawn to his clever anecdotes and natural charm. Fenton watches him as he talks to some of his old colleagues from the New York Police Department, but the only thing he can actually hear is Lieutenant Hill's abrasive laugh, and Fenton has to turn away when he realizes that Carson is staring at him from across the room. 

It isn't until Laura begins passing around the champagne flutes that Carson finally approaches him. "Fenton..." he says, but Nancy is still at his side, and Fenton can tell he doesn't quite know how to continue. 

"Joe," Fenton says suddenly, motioning to his son. Joe looks up questioningly from a platter of cheese and crackers. "Why don't you take Nancy and play a game together?" 

Joe gives her an appraising sort of look. "Do you like cards?" he asks. 

Nancy grins. "Oh, yes! May I go play cards?" she asks her father. 

"Of course you may." Carson watches as they disappear into the other room. "They're easy to please," he observes. 

Fenton narrows his eyes. "Come with me." He leads Carson down the hall towards the back entrance to his house, stopping only when his wife appears with another bottle of champagne. "I thought I would show Carson how your vegetable garden is set up," he says pleasantly, sweeping a kiss across her cheek. 

"Oh, but everything is dead!" she laughs. 

"No matter," Fenton says. "He just wanted to get an idea of the arrangement." 

"Nothing like fresh tomatoes," Carson says. 

They slip out the back in silence, past the patio and through the tall grass of the Hardys' backyard. Fenton doesn't stop until they reach the far side of the shed, where Laura grows cucumbers and tomatoes and a whole assortment of other things he can't remember. 

"This wasn't my idea, you know," Carson says sharply before Fenton even has the chance to speak. "You've been cross with me all evening, but do you think this is easy for me? She called me out of nowhere, Fenton, and she wouldn't take no for an answer. What was I supposed to do? What was I supposed to tell her?" 

Fenton looks at him closely in the fading light. "Just be quiet," he says, then takes Carson's face in his hands and kisses him. 

For once, Carson is speechless. 

"That's all I've wanted to do since I saw you," Fenton breathes against his neck. "Every minute. It's all I could think about." He parts his lips and kisses him again, tangling his fingers in his hair as he presses him up against the wall of the shed. 

"You're insane," Carson groans as Fenton runs his hand along the inside of his thigh. " _Ahh_... God, Fenton, we can't do this here." 

Fenton squeezes his eyes shut in frustration. He doesn't think he's ever wanted someone as badly as he wants Carson now, but the man is right. This is too dangerous. "Damn it," he sighs, and presses a kiss against Carson's jaw. "God, I wish we were anywhere but here." 

Fenton moves away and straightens his tie, Carson merely adjusts his glasses. He looks infinitely more composed than Fenton feels. 

They're about to return to the house when Fenton feels Carson's hand on his wrist. "Wait," he says. 

Fenton smiles wistfully. "Don't be a tease. It doesn't suit you." 

"This is for you." Carson reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, red box. "I have only one request: Don't go lending them out," he says cryptically as he presses the gift into his hand. "Open it later, when the light is better." 

Fenton gazes down at the box in surprise. He hadn't even expected Carson to be there, much less give him anything. "Carson, you didn't have to... Thank you," he says, placing it in his pocket. 

Carson smiles distantly. "It would probably be in our best interest to rejoin the party." Fenton thinks it probably would have been in their best interest to stay at the party in the first place, but then again, his own wife already knows they're out here. He clears his throat. "I hope you noted the location of the cucumbers," he says, motioning to an unassuming patch of earth. "For your garden." 

"Thank you, I did," Carson says. 

Fenton leads the way back to the house, lightly running his fingers over the velvet-smooth box in his pocket. And then he comes around the other side of the shed, and his blood runs cold. 

He stops dead in his tracks, staring at Joe. "What are you doing outside?" he demands. "I thought I told you to play a game with Nancy." 

A strange looks passes over Joe's face, and Fenton doesn't know if it's from the sudden shock of being yelled at, or something else entirely. He doesn't think he wants to know. "I—Nancy and I put my airplane together," he stammers. "I was going to get the ladder from the shed. We wanted to see if it would fly." 

Fenton looks past Joe to where Carson's daughter is seated some distance away in the grass. She glances up at them curiously. 

"It's too cold for you to be out here without a coat," Fenton snaps. All he can think about is how long they've been outside, how long Joe has been standing there. "Nancy is probably freezing. Go back inside at once." 

Joe looks down at his feet and nods. "Yes, sir." 

Fenton watches him cross the lawn and help Nancy up off the ground, toy airplane still tucked beneath one arm. She brushes the grass from her dress and laughs, taking the plane from Joe and sending it in an arc above his head. 

Next to him, Carson places a hand lightly on his shoulder. "I'm sure they were only playing." 

The back door bangs shut, and Fenton tries to tell himself that Carson is right. "You really do have a lovely daughter," he says after a moment. "It's rather a shame they can't become better friends." 

"I suppose it is," Carson agrees. 

They go back inside and Fenton's wife hands them each a plate of cake. Rich, dark chocolate with coconut shavings, a specialty of Mrs. Morton. Carson compliments the Hardys on their lovely home, the children go upstairs to play Rummy, and Fenton stays at his wife's side for the remainder of the night, gently resting his arm against the delicate curve of her waist. 

"I'm sorry it's so early," Carson apologizes when they're the first to leave, "but Nancy and I have quite a long drive home." 

"Thank you so much for coming, Carson," Fenton says, and he smiles and lets go of his wife's waist, wishing that he didn't have to give Carson the same trite handshake he'd offer any one of his guests. 

  
  
  
  


Never mind counterfeiting and bank jobs, the real money maker of 1935 is the Museum of Modern Art's Vincent Van Gogh exhibit. The entire showroom is wall to wall people—families, tourists, exasperated art lovers—all vying for a spot in front of the famed masterpieces. 

"Good grief," Frank exclaims, gaping at the crowd, and Fenton can't help but agree with the sentiment. 

Even so, they do their best to weave through the masses, admiring the paintings for as long as they can before being swept away by another surge of people. There are some undeniably beautiful pieces, but Fenton is secretly relieved when Joe gives a satisfied smile and says, "Shall we go see the rest of the museum?" 

Fenton's been treading carefully around his son ever since the party, waiting to see if he looks at him differently, studying his eyes for signs of betrayal. But he's beginning to think that Carson was right, that neither of their children had paid them any notice that night. Joe even went out again one afternoon to see if his plane would fly. 

They wander into a showroom of French painters that Fenton is relieved to find mostly deserted. It's a welcome reprieve from the chaos of the main gallery, and after a family of five disappears into the next room, they find they have the collection completely to themselves. Franks starts going on to his mother about one of the artists, but Fenton is content to continue along the wall by himself, stopping to admire those pieces he finds particularly breathtaking. 

He wanders into an adjoining room, where Joe is gazing thoughtfully at a Matisse. "Coming here was a fine idea," Fenton comments. 

Joe's footsteps echo in the empty showroom. "I think so too. Can we have dinner in the city?" he asks. 

"I don't see why not." He fully expects Joe to begin making restaurant suggestions, but there's only silence. "You're awfully quiet today," Fenton observes. "Have you gotten your brother anything for his birthday yet? It's next week, you know." 

Joe wanders over to the next painting and shoves his hands in his pockets. "Boys don't give other boys gifts," he mumbles. 

Fenton tries not to look taken aback. "Don't be silly," he laughs. "Of course you can give another boy a gift." 

Joe just stares moodily at his shoes, and his reply is so soft that at first Fenton can't believe he heard right. Surely his own son, so sweet and so young, hasn't been exposed to that kind of hatred. But there's no mistaking the scorn in his voice, or the words: _"Only if you're a faggot."_

Fenton's so blinded by anger he can't even think straight, and he slaps Joe hard across the face. "I don't ever, _ever_ want to hear that word from you again, do you understand?" 

Joe cradles his cheek and looks up at his father in shock. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. 

" _Do you understand?_ " Fenton demands. 

Joe nods, unable to hold back the tears his eyes. 

"Good," Fenton says, trying to keep his voice even. His hand is beginning to sting. "Here, stop crying," he says, pulling his handkerchief from out of his pocket. "People are going to stare." 

After a moment, Joe sniffles and hands the cloth back to him. "Maybe we can go out for steak," he says quietly. His bright blue eyes are all puffy. 

Fenton slips the handkerchief back into his pocket and returns his attention to the paintings. "All right," he says. "Sure." 

They're so exhausted by the time they get home that Laura goes to bed early and Frank and Joe both retreat to opposite ends of the house. Fenton takes a book from his study and goes to the living room, where Frank is already sprawled out across the sofa. 

"Did you have a good time in the city?" he asks, settling into an armchair. 

Frank looks up from his book and grins. "Sure. We should go more often." 

"I'm glad." Fenton flips through the pages until he finds his bookmark buried in the spine. "And I agree, we don't see the city nearly as often as we should." He closes the book again. "Where did your brother learn the word 'faggot'?" 

Frank's eyes go impossibly wide. "Wh—what?" 

"Don't make me repeat myself." 

Frank carefully places his book to the side and sits up, looking distressed. "Dad, I don't... " He swallows. "School. From some of the boys at school. I mean...you know," he adds uselessly. 

"I see." Fenton stares off into the distance. When he looks up, Frank is still watching him nervously. "You can go back to your book," he says. 

He finds Joe up in his room, lying on his bed with a book of his own propped up on his chest. He watches him for a moment, flipping through the pages with an amused sort of smile. 

"Any good?" Fenton asks from the doorway. 

Joe doesn't look up, just nods. "I wish she would write more Miss Marple." 

"Who's that one about, then?" 

"Poirot," Joe replies. "They're mostly about Poirot. I like him too, but I think she should write more Miss Marple." 

Fenton crosses the room and sits down on the edge of the bed. He's not entirely sure what to say. "Put that down for a second, will you?" 

Joe folds the dust jacket into the pages and sets it aside, then props himself up against the headboard. He looks thoroughly miserable. 

"Just listen to me, all right?" Fenton says gently, staring at his cufflinks. "I don't care where you heard that word, or who said it, or who it was aimed at. It's an ugly word, and I don't ever want to hear you using it again." 

Joe nods solemnly. 

"Sometimes..." Fenton exhales roughly. He shouldn't be having this conversation. This isn't what fathers talk about with their sons. 

"Sometimes what?" Joe asks suddenly, and Fenton can't bring himself to ignore the question. 

"Sometimes," he says carefully, "people can't help what they are. But that's their burden to bear, and it doesn't give anyone else the right to treat them poorly." 

Joe stares at his lap. "Why is it a burden?" he asks quietly, and it's only then that Fenton realizes it was never his father for whom Joe was concerned. 

Fenton's chest tightens. Surely his son is too young to know, he thinks dismally. Surely he doesn't deserve this fate. "Because, Joe," he says, struggling to keep his voice even. "That's not how men are supposed to be. But you don't need to worry," he promises. "You're going to get married, and have a family, and it's not something you ever need to worry about." He looks over at his son, and his heart breaks over how much he wants it to be the truth. 

"All right," Joe says quietly, but even after Fenton kisses him on the head and leaves the room, all he can hear is his own mocking accusation, ringing in his ears like the clatter of Joe's footsteps in the empty showroom: _You mean like you?_

He opens the door to his bedroom and slips into the master bath, taking extra care not to wake his wife. Turning on the light, he stares into the mirror in disgust. This is a mess, he thinks desperately. What on earth led him to believe this could ever work? He's jeopardized his family, his career. Risked far too much to fall in love with someone he can never truly be with. It isn't worth it. It can't be worth it. 

He leans over the sink, letting the water run cold as he splashes it over his face. "God," he sighs, and rubs at his eyes until his vision goes red. He takes off his tie and unbuttons his shirt, lingering over the cufflinks that lie at his wrists. Beautifully intricate knots of platinum, woven around a single lonely sapphire. They must have cost an exorbitant amount of money, but then, Carson has never been modest with his wallet. Fenton slips one from his shirt cuff, cradling it in his palm. 

And then just as he's about to slide them into his pocket, he realizes why Carson had asked that he never lend them out. He'd completely failed to notice—maybe because he'd dressed too quickly, or because the extravagance of the gift had left him flustered. He runs his finger over the smooth underside of the jewelry, where an impossibly small string of letters adorns the metal. 

_Yours, C._

Turning the other one in his palm, he holds it under the light and laughs dismally. 

You have three choices, Carson had told him once. Live the lie, endure the ruin, or accept the danger that comes with trying to have it all. But Fenton knows that it's a loss as much as a risk, and those lucky enough to find that balance ultimately lose the freedom to favor either side. This is the most that he and Carson will ever be. Discreet phone calls and secluded hotel rooms. Words on his cufflinks that no one can ever see. He'll go to church with his family, have dinner with his wife, play ball with his sons. To the rest of the world, Carson Drew will never be anything greater than a friend. But he reads the words in his palm, shining softly under the pale light of his bathroom mirror— _It's always worth it, Fenton_ —and he can't believe how much he wants them to be true. 

  
  
  
  


Fenton wakes up to the unkind chill of January and Carson's lips against his shoulder. 

"Rise and shine, darling," Carson murmurs as Fenton rolls over in his arms. He reaches out from beneath the covers, laughing softly as he brushes the hair out of Fenton's eyes. "You warned me that I'd live to regret it if I let you oversleep," he says. "Don't make that face." 

Fenton yawns. "I remember no such thing," he mumbles, then smiles languidly and snakes his hand down between Carson's legs. "Mmm, what time is it?" 

"Oh, god..." Carson groans, trying to read his wristwatch from around Fenton's shoulder. "Nearly seven— _god_ , Fenton..." 

Fenton pulls him closer, kissing his neck as he touches him beneath the covers. "That's a shame," he breathes. "I suppose this will have to wait." 

"When did you decide to start being a tease?" Carson complains when Fenton pulls away. 

But Fenton only smiles to himself, glancing at his own watch. "I have to wash up and make a quick phone call. Shall we meet downstairs in forty-five minutes?" 

Carson takes his glasses from the bedside table. "Make it thirty, won't you?" he says impatiently. "We might as well enjoy our breakfast." Then he slides his arm around Fenton's waist, draws him down and kisses him softly. 

"All right," Fenton murmurs against his lips. "Thirty." 

He gathers his things—clothes from the chair, shoes by the bed, briefcase on the desk—and returns to his own room two floors down. He showers and shaves, runs a comb through his hair and dresses in the suit that's hanging on the coat rack. The paperwork for this morning's meeting is still tucked away neatly in his briefcase, same as it was when he left home the evening before. He adjusts his tie in the mirror and gathers his overcoat, then quickly pulls back the covers from his still-made bed, sinking his fist into the pillow so that it looks slept on. 

He goes down to the lobby and places a call home, keeping the promise he made to his wife. 

"Oh, hello, sweetheart," Laura says fondly. "I'm afraid you just missed the boys. They've already left for school." 

"At least they're punctual." 

"Well, you know Frank. He prefers to be early if he can help it. I think Joe only avoids tardiness by virtue of the fact that they're headed to the same place." She laughs. "Have you arrived at your meeting already?" 

"No," he says. "I'm still at the hotel. Though I have a bit of time, I thought I might have breakfast somewhere." 

"I went to make scrambled eggs this morning and realized we were out eggs," she sighs. "Honestly, I'm so scattered when you're not here, I don't know how I ever manage. When does your trial begin?" 

"We're meeting with the defense this morning," Fenton explains. "I imagine they're hoping to settle out of court." 

"Do you think they'll succeed?" 

Fenton smiles grimly. "Not likely. I'm afraid Carson isn't a particularly merciful negotiator." 

"Goodness, but he seems so friendly." 

"Well, he is," Fenton says. "Unless, of course, he's suing you." He checks his watch again, scanning the lobby out of the corner of his eye. Carson is lingering near the elevator, briefcase at his feet as he buttons up his coat. "But I'm afraid I have to go, Laura," Fenton says kindly. "Say hello to the boys for me, won't you?" 

"Of course I will," she says, and her words are brimming with the same affection they've always held. She knows that this is his career, their livelihood. That he'd be home if he could. "When do you think you'll be back?" 

"I'll call you as soon as I know," he says, watching Carson from across the room. Carson hardly meets his gaze, smiling vaguely before turning away to polish his glasses. "I love you, darling," Fenton says into the phone. 

After he hangs up, he checks his watch again and gathers his things, puts his coat on and replaces his hat. 

"Fancy seeing you here," Carson says affably when Fenton approaches him. Setting his briefcase down, he shakes Fenton's hand like they haven't seen each other in months. "Don't tell me this is where you're staying," he says with disbelief. "What a funny coincidence." 

"Yes, it is," Fenton agrees as Carson slowly caresses the back of his hand with his thumb. His skin is always so warm. "Why don't you join me for breakfast," Fenton insists. "After all, we're on our way to the same place." 

Carson lets go of his hand, smiling pleasantly. "Thank you, Fenton. I think I will." 

Fenton tucks his scarf into his coat and picks up his briefcase. "Shall we go then?" he asks, and they leave the hotel together, walking side by side into the biting chill of the morning. Carson has to grab hold of his hat to keep it from blowing away, and all Fenton can think is how much he wishes they were still in bed together, tangled in the warmth of the covers as Carson breathes softly against his neck. 

But passing through the crowded streets of the city, they're nothing more than colleagues. Two prominent members of New York society on their way to an important meeting. They go to breakfast and discuss the details of their case. Order eggs and toast and check their watches far too often. They act every bit the part of Fenton Hardy and Carson Drew, smiling mildly at their coffee as they inquire after the lives they can never really share.


End file.
